


Dragon's Flight

by typeBfan



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dragons, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Alternate Universe - Mythology, Angry John, BAMF John, Canon-Typical Violence, Dragon!Anderson, Dragon!John, Dragonlock, John Whump, M/M, Past Drug Use, Possessive Behavior, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-11
Updated: 2016-01-04
Packaged: 2017-12-23 03:23:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/921417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/typeBfan/pseuds/typeBfan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Mycroft Holmes forces his brother into buying a companion dragon to keep him out of trouble (and away from drugs), Sherlock picks the least boring drac possible....</p><p>Dragon!John</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. ignis [fire, lightning]

In a crowded market on the outskirts of London dwelled the ragtag beasts of Seb’s Emporium of Pre-Owned Dragons.

The rusted sign nailed to one of the iron-barred cages proclaimed the stall as a fully licensed dealer and trainer of secondhand scalies.‘Seb’s Emporium: a drac for every deed’read the slogan.

Owen (the salesman with no surname he cared to divulge) sat at the rickety shopfront table, gnawing habitually on a pen while he considered the morning paper’s crossword. He had just conceded defeat to 22 down - on the edge of giving in entirely - when a commotion broke out in the bustling thoroughfare near his shop.

“What are you attempting to achieve? Was sending three nurses into witness protection and burning down the psychiatric wing at Redcliffe not enough incentive to leave me be? Do you really think this is-”

“Really, Sherlock,” a steady, cool voice interrupted. “Must we go through this ritual again? You have rarely had any dealings with them in the past; these histrionics you are in over owning one are-”

“I need not own one to know what they are,” hissed the man named Sherlock. “They are merely dumb beasts of burden. Dull. _Boring_.”

Catching onto the thread of conversation, Owen leapt at the suggestion of potential customers. He smoothed down his balding hair, shrugged into his soot-stained leather jacket and stepped right into the fray.

“Good evening, Sirs,” Owen intoned in a way he thought most affable. “I could not help but overhear you may be in the market to procure a drac. We happen to have some fine specimens available today for purchase or hire.”

“Excellent. I am Mycroft Holmes, this is my brother Sherlock. We would be-”

“You had intercourse with a man last night...and his wife the night before,” pronounced Sherlock.

Owen turned plum-coloured, his mouth gaping open and shut like a particularly disgruntled trout.

“Obviously, I am very much correct,” Sherlock added smugly before turning away. “May we leave now, Mycroft?”

The older man in question brandished his umbrella as if to block Sherlock's escape. “No,” he pronounced before offering an apology to the shopkeeper. “If it is not too much to ask, may we take a tour of your available dragons? Price is not an issue...”

Owen perked up significantly at the hint of a customer with deep pockets. He sent Sherlock a dirty glare before gesturing the older Holmes forwards. “Well in that case, we have several specimens that may be of interest to you. Do you have any preferences? Small or large? Male or female? Colouring and the like?”

Mycroft quirked an eyebrow in his brother’s direction, “Sherlock?”

“No,” he replied as both answer to Owen’s questions and another blatant refusal of his brother’s invasive scheming.

“I believe we will know the beast when we see it,” continued Mycroft as if Sherlock were as mute as the caged dracs surrounding them.

Owen stepped up to a nearby cage, thumbing the plastic light-switch to illuminate its contents. A medium-sized dragon with pearlescent scales the size of tablespoons, luminous pink-tinted eyes and small, thin-looking claws stirred lazily against the concrete floor of its cell. It was a fine-bodied creature despite having the same length head to hindlegs of a Holstein cow.

“This is one of our female dracs - she’s obedient and as well mannered a beast to be found-”

Sherlock stepped up to the cage bars, ignoring Owen’s tenseness as he purposely invaded his personal space. “This dragon is almost completely blind; likely the result of her being bred and raised in captivity by morons.”

“How could you possibly accuse me of trying to sell you a second-rate scaley?” Owen spat, rounding on Sherlock. “She was wild! Caught in Norway and highly prized for her-”

“Rare genetic disease? Really, how on earth would a dragon from the wilds of Norway fall victim to an illness exclusively found in captive bred dracs? I doubt your employers would appreciate the hefty fine attached to their involvement in illegal activities! Shall we move on?”

Owen spluttered while Mycroft breathed a long-suffering sigh. The dragon uncoiled her slender body a little more, her wings trapped against her rib cage by a thick leather band. Sherlock turned away in favour of observing the next drac. This one was more the size of a German Shepard, emerald green in colour and male – ‘a perfectly normal dragon’ Owen assured them.

“He killed both of his previous owners - devoured both in their sleep. Next?”

The proceeding three dragons went much the same way as the others (Large, black, male - elderly and arthritic. Small, silver, female - pregnant. Large, brown, male - _dull_!) Owen had long since lost his patience while Mycroft was beginning to lose all hope of finding a suitable drac when Sherlock paused in the middle of a complicated deduction about Owen’s mother.

“Why is that cage kept separate?” he inquired, already striding purposefully towards a darkened corner in the rear of the shop.

“Quarantine,” replied Owen in a rather hasty manner. “Wild caught scalies tend to carry many nasty infectious diseases.”

Sherlock stopped barely a foot from the dark cage’s rusted iron bars. “Yes that would be correct if this dragon had not been vaccinated within the past three years. Unfortunately for you Mister Owen this dragon has been vaccinated-”

“Really, Sherlock?” Mycroft scoffed. “How could you possibly know that?”

“You said it would ‘do me well’ to research the care and control of modern household dracs. The lack of significant sulphourous build up on these cage bars means that this dragon either cannot breath fire or has recently had the vaccination for _draconis pyroacari_ , otherwise known as the Common Fire Mite. Only well-to-do owners vaccinate for those as each dose lasts a maximum of three years. As there is a very slight build up of sulphur beginning to form, this dragon was vaccinated mid-March of the year 2009. Obviously he has not been wild in at least three years. Mister Owen is therefore lying, again.” Sherlock paused to let his tirade sink in, wisely using the time Owen spent in stunned silence to snatch the cage keys from his belt.

“Let us take a closer look then,” exclaimed Sherlock, popping the lock before either his brother or the shopkeeper could react.

The detective's sudden entrance provoked an ominous growling from the cage’s surprisingly large occupant. Sherlock caught a glance of luminous golden wings unfurling in the darkness before a flash of electric blue light zapped along the cage bars, effectively blinding him.

“Bloody mad man,” Owen grumbled, a hand at Sherlock’s elbow pulling him back. “Truth is that one has been classified as Highly Dangerous; deemed untrainable and a threat to public safety by the MET’s Dragon Safety Division. Been on the list for execution for a whole bloody month, it's a right drain on our profits keeping him here indefinitely!”

Sherlock, his sight now restored, turned back to examine the runes and magical wards engraved into the cage bars that now glowed faintly against the rust. Behind the bars the creature had slumped to the floor with the massive jolt of magical energy, molten chestnut coloured eyes closed to bare slivers. Well if Mycroft insisted Sherlock purchase a companion drac...he could see no better companion than this savage, dangerous creature.

“This one,” Sherlock declared in a whirl of coat tails, turning his back on the two other men's stunned silence. “He is mine.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 3/1/16 Have done some small edits to this chapter in preparation of writing chapter 5!
> 
> This is to be a multi-chaptered work with eventual sexing so just be aware later chapters will be mature. Feel free to comment about anything, kudos make me feel special ☻


	2. feritas [wildness]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock examines his dragon and Lestrade makes a discovery.

After Sherlock’s impertinent announcement and subsequent departure from Seb’s Emporium, Mycroft efficiently took care of the dragon’s nominal purchase fee and the ownership papers were transferred into his name. Owen was uncharacteristically helpful with the organisation of transport, providing Mycroft with the business card of a reputable wildlife freight service run by a doctor of veterinary medicine, Mike Stamford.  


“Doc Stamford’ll give him the good drugs for transport,” Owen assured the elder Holmes brother once the date and time for delivery were settled. “That mean fanged bastard wont know what’s hit him!”  
  
Mycroft’s reply had been a small twist of lip that Owen falsely interpreted as a smile.  
                                                                  

* * *

    
  
Much to Sherlock’s infinite annoyance, Dr. Stamford and his crew proved to be just as efficient and reliable as Owen had claimed them to be. Within fifteen minutes of their arrival at 221 Baker Street the dragon was upstairs and settled on the living room floor. Admittedly the movers’ jobs had been made easier than usual with the large removable windows beside 221B’s fireplace. It provided just enough of an opening to lift the unconscious dragon into the apartment with a crane and ropes. Sherlock would just have to formulate a plan to lose Mycroft’s dumb beast later.  
  
On his way out, Mike Stamford took it upon himself to leave Sherlock with a few parting pearls of advice. “He should be out for the rest of the day. He put up a good fight against the sedation; had to give him three times the usual dose for a dragon his size. With that amount of sedative onboard his body heat is gonna drop a fair bit. You’d best stoke up that fireplace before his core temperature gets below acceptable range. A drop like that can-”  
  
“Severely diminish or permanently impede a dragon’s ability to produce flame,” Sherlock interrupted impatiently. “I am very familiar with the latest research projects and scientific publications, Doctor Stamford. You have performed your job satisfactorily. I believe my brother has arranged payment with your company so I shall take my leave, good day.”  
  
Stamford’s docile expression slipped at Sherlock’s ‘satisfactory’ rating of his performance, though he fortunately made no further attempt to reengage in conversation and left 221B rather promptly - exactly the result Sherlock had aimed to provoke. Why waste time pleasing someone so dull when there was a potential puzzle to solve unconscious in his flat?  
  
An indecent little smirk tugged at the corners of his lips as he took the stairs three at a time and strode none-too-quietly towards his unfortunate focus, unearthing a torch (police issue, pilfered from Lestrade a week ago) from the cluttered dining room table on his way past.  
  
The horse-sized dragon lay sprawled on its side, the gold-hued scales of its hide darkened to shades of brown by caked on grime and the creature’s general ill health. Kneeling beside the drac’s head, Sherlock used his right hand to deftly pry open a heavy, scaled eyelid, hefting his pilfered torch in the opposite hand. Neither the split pupiled eyes nor the lack of pupillary response surprised Sherlock - obviously Stamford had not exaggerated the excessive amount of sedative used to fell the beast. Sherlock promptly dropped the stolen torch in favour of further exploration.  
  
The thick skin of the dragon’s cheeks proved reasonably hot to touch, a sign that the drugs were yet to have an adverse affect on the dragon’s homeostatic processes.  
  
‘How fortunate,’ Sherlock thought, ‘though if the dragon were to die of an overdose it would save the effort involved in losing it later.’  
  
Sherlock carefully palpated along the raised, knobbly brow ridges to the fleshy masseter and temporal muscles along the sides of the wide, wedge-shaped skull. Many scientific research papers likened a dragon’s cranial structure to crocodiles, their closest living relatives, however in Sherlock’s opinion the similarities were rather superficial. On average the brain cavity of a common drac was at least three times that of a crocodile and the facial profile (having not evolved for an underwater habitat) much less flat.  
  
Continuing his explorations, Sherlock felt further along until he reached a curious frill of leathery skin on either side of the creature’s head. Most dragons lacked an external ear aperture, in particular the smaller dog and cow-sized breeds. This dragon it seemed was a specimen of a handful of larger dragon breeds with flexible flaps of skin used to protect the delicate structures of the inner ear during flight.  
  
“Interesting,” Sherlock murmured in a distracted voice before moving his inspection along the beast’s spiked neck to its limp wings.  
  
The wings were even dirtier than the dragon’s body. To be expected after the long period of time they had spent tightly strapped down until Sherlock had cut through the leather binding. Sherlock had not felt a sudden uncharacteristic sense of kindness towards the creature; he had merely sought to alleviate his raging curiosity towards the leathery wings.  
  
Now he was able to closely observe them he estimated their length to be a flight-capable ten metres. Other than the obvious dog-eared state of the appendages they appeared to be in full working order apart from a large, pockmarked crater on the left wing joint. Perhaps this dragon was earthbound. How dull.  
  
After that discovery Sherlock made a perfunctory study of the creature’s tail (two and a half metres long, spiked along the top edge, ending in four crimson coloured rudder fins), claws (long, curved and serrated on the inside edge - obviously this dragon had recently been in a high-adrenaline environment for battle-ready claws such as these to grow in) and teeth (twenty-eight thick, curved fangs) but his interest was beginning to wane. He would not have chosen this dragon if he had known it was grounded.  
  
Sudden bounding footsteps on the staircase caused a small smirk to spread across Sherlock’s face as he straightened up from the floor. Finally Lestrade had realised his team were out of their depth with this serial ‘suicide’ business. It had only taken three - no, four deaths.  


“Where?” Sherlock demanded before Lestrade had even reached the landing.  
  
The other man finished his climb before answering, “Brixton. Lauriston Gardens.”  


 “Something has changed,” Sherlock stated, reading the detective inspector’s impatience in his balled fists and bedraggled appearance.  
  
 “A note. This one left a note,” replied Lestrade as he spared a quick glance around the cluttered apartment. “Will you-” he began to ask before breaking off abruptly to stare at the reptilian mound on the living room floor. “Sherlock, is that a bloody _drac_?”  
  
 “Your deductive reasoning skills continue to astound me, Inspector,” the man in question snarked, unwilling to be distracted from the case at hand. “Who is on forensics?”  
  
Lestrade stood in stunned silence for a moment longer before heaving an exasperated sigh. It wasn’t worth the pain to wrestle the dragon’s backstory out of Sherlock. He would more than likely find out about it later anyway, whether he wanted to or not. Instead he simply replied, “Sergeant Donovan and Anderson of course.”  
  
 “Of course!” Sherlock snapped angrily because, as if merely speaking their names summoned them, the two police officers had appeared on the staircase behind their superior - one stone-faced police woman with an equally disgruntled looking dragon trailing at her side. “Anderson wont work with me. You know that Lestrade.”  
  
 “Who can blame him?” Sally interjected. “Not after you almost burned his wings off on that drac smuggling case!”  
  
Anderson flared out said wings in a show of animosity towards his tormenter, an act which would have been much more impressive if not for the fact he was the size of an average beagle with wings to match.  
  
Sherlock scoffed haughtily. “You speak as if that would be a major loss, Sally. May I remind you the fool cannot even use them properly.”  
  
Sensing matters were about to get out of hand, Lestrade moved in to cool the situation down but not in time to stop Anderson as the little dragon let out an almighty screech and launched himself at Sherlock’s knees, razor sharp teeth snapping at fabric and flesh. In the following melee Anderson managed to utterly destroy Sherlock’s tailored trousers, gouging deep cuts into his calves and thighs with knife-like talons as he climbed higher. Lestrade made a grab for the enraged creature only to be rewarded with a nasty bite on his palm while Sally watched with equal parts mirth and concern for her fellow police officers.  
  
Anderson was just starting to rip into Sherlock’s white dress shirt and black suit jacket when a sudden rumbling noise like a series of distant thunderclaps froze all movement in the room. All movement that is except from the large, gold scaled head that appeared at Sherlock’s shoulder, drug-addled hazel eyes fixed intently on the little white dragon with blood stained claws. A cloud of thick black smoke began to gather around the larger dragon’s nostrils, the air in the room growing heavy with the scent of gunpowder.  
  
Sally swallowed convulsively as the gold dragon’s maw opened wide to show a violent red glow gathering in the back of the creature’s throat that was steadily turning orange then yellow and finally a deep electric blue.  
  
“Shit,” Lestrade swore, backing away instinctively with his hands in the air in defensive surrender. “It’s a war dragon!”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully there aren't too many mistakes in that, I wrote 3/4 of it today and thought I've left you guys hanging long enough - damn writer's block! - so I've put it up as is :) The first bit was very hard to get the tenses right in and just did not want to be written (so I got the notepaper and pen out and did it the hard way!)
> 
> 3/1/16 Some small edits made :)
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone that's commented/left kudos/bookmarked/subscribed, it does really mean a lot to me.
> 
> If anyone's interested this is the closest I've found to what I picture John to look like:  
> http://www.pinterest.com/pin/569846159070318592/
> 
> And this is Anderson heeee: http://reptangle.deviantart.com/art/Albino-rock-dragon-264397658
> 
> Sorry, lots of worldbuilding in this chapter but it will be important later on ;)


	3. draconis ignis bellum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock may have bitten off more than he can chew, Lestrade finds something important out about Sherlock's new flatmate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone that's continued to read and comment on this story in my very Sherlock-worthy year long hiatus! Bit of a tense change here. The later bits of this story will be non-series 3 compliant. Love to you all, I hope you enjoy this update <3

As much as the prospect of observing Anderson immolated in the name of science fills Sherlock with unrepentant glee, he could hardly justify setting two of NSY’s best ablaze – especially considering how difficult their deaths would make access to current investigations. So in that light Sherlock does the only appropriate thing that can be done to disarm a battle ready war dragon drugged up to the fangs on elephant tranquilisers; he leaps towards the beast and wraps his long-fingered violinist hands around its jaws, clamping down hard.

There is an audible  _snick_  as twenty-eight dagger sharp teeth slide closed, sealing the dangerous electric blue glow away in a cage of flesh and scales.

The room falls into unnatural stillness; the lull in destruction at the eye of a cyclone. Sally stops in the midst of grabbing for her sidearm. Lestrade still has his hands up, fingers spread in place of a white flag. Even Anderson freezes in place, the fear in his pink on grey eyes fading to blank surprise. There is hardly a whisper of breath on the air.

Lestrade is first to break the fragile silence, voice barely above a murmur as he orders Anderson and Donovan to ‘ _wait in the car’_.

Sally’s hand drops from her holster as she gives a slow nod to her superior and then picks her way through the usual clutter of 221B. She pauses uncertainly on the landing but Anderson holds no qualms about leaving, grabbing her coat tails in his sharp, bloody claws on the way past and firmly dragging his partner from the flat.

“Alright,” mutters Lestrade, his voice rising nearer to its usual volume. His officers were safe - now he just had to get Sherlock out in one piece. “On the count of three, I want you to release the dragon’s muzzle and run downstairs. I’ll go up, split its focus. You and Sally are to radio for back up and stay at a safe distance. There are some drac tranq guns in the squad car. You’re a civilian; do not engage unless there is no other option. Blink twice if you understand.”

Sherlock’s response is a particularly patronising eye roll. Well, as patronising as he can make an eye roll look with his hands wrapped around the maw of debatably the most deadly species of dragon in history.

“Seriously. We need to time this right or not at all.”

“Really, Lestrade?” the brunette huffs in an amused drawl. “You continue to astound me with your unparalleled ability to make passably accurate observations and yet leap to spectacularly incorrect conclusions.”

Being so acclimatised to the mad genius’ habit of verbalising random tangents of thought, the Detective Inspector did not so much as blink in Sherlock’s direction.

“Dear God, what is it like in your funny little brains? How can you miss something so blindingly obvious?”

“Obvious?” Lestrade starts, incredulous. His anger is enough now to forget any attempt to stay calm and quiet. “The one  _obvious_  part of this whole disastrous situation is the fact we’re both about to die rather fiery deaths. Now, if you’ve satisfied the need to put your giant foot in where-”

Sherlock spins around in a suitably dramatic pirouette, hands on hips and scowl neatly affixed to his angular face.

“Shit!” curses Lestrade as he makes an instinctual leap to regain control of the now free dragon.

Unlike the previous ill-advised grab the older man had made towards the drac, the beast simply twists its great reptilian skull aside, easily evading the desperate attempt. Lestrade finds himself frozen in fear for the second time in as many minutes, this time only a handbreadth from the creature that has him now solidly fixed in its crosshairs.

“Now you’ve satisfied your need to be an imbecile,” says Sherlock from where he hasn’t moved an inch, “I can show you the  _obvious_  part of this ‘ _disastrous situation’_.”

Without a second’s pause he stalks back to the still pissed off looking dragon and firmly clamps his hands back in position around the bony jaws.

A menacing thrumming noise begins to emanate from deep with the dragon’s chest, rumbling up through Sherlock’s arms and rattling his teeth.

“Oh stop that,” the young man scolds. “I’m making a point.”

The beast blinks heavy gold scaled eyelids, its opaque nictitating membrane sliding sluggishly back into place each time. Though the warning rumble does not cease, it decreases in volume until it is a tremolo roll of percussion quivering in the air.

“Better,” the consulting detective praises. “Now Lestrade, this dragon currently has seven ways to effortlessly murder us at its disposal including disembowelment and exsanguination. Only a fool would believe the average human’s grip strength of approximately twenty pounds per square inch would have any effect on the thirteen thousand psi bite of a fully mature male dragon of this size and mandibular musculature.  _Obviously_  its murderous intent was aimed solely towards Anderson-” Sherlock releases the reptilian snout in favour of picking delicately at his expensive dress shirt, now ripped entirely to shreds “-that snivelling little wyrm.”

The dragon which had fallen silent as soon as the consulting detective released him puts in a hearty snarl at that. Of course dragons, much like other domesticated animals, sometimes appear intelligent beyond their species’ reputation. As Sherlock had discovered in studies conducted during his misspent childhood, this was merely an illusion. Response to stimuli such as body language and vocal tone. Nevertheless it was fitting punctuation to the audible loathing in Sherlock’s baritone voice.

“If you didn’t provoke him-”

“I hardly-”

“You know his pressure points you berk!” Lestrade grinds the statement out between clenched teeth. His right hand comes up to pinch reflexively at the bridge of his nose, attempting to dissuade the tension headache forming like a storm cloud behind his eyes. He forcibly exhales. Inhales. Exhales again. “Do you even have the proper paperwork for that brute? And where the bloody hell is it’s collar?”

Sherlock stalks across to the mantelpiece over the still blazing hearth. Palming a stack of official looking documents, he returns to carelessly throw the pile on the coffee table before Lestrade. Being adept at skim reading, it takes the DI a relatively short time to pick through the useless legal drivel.

“Well there’s a surprise,” the older man sighs, taking a seat on the well-worn couch pushed up against the back wall. “Everything is present and correct; except of course for any information about your new dragon flatmate’s history. It’s all redacted.”

“Well that’s hardly my fault.”

“You, Sherlock Holmes, are the  _only_  man I’ve ever met who would even consider bringing a completely unknown drac home. Can’t you just do _one_  normal thing?”

“Dull.”

Lestrade can think of no civil reply so instead turns his focus back to the mad man’s companion. The big dragon is curled up on the rug near the fireplace, forelegs crossed casually with its tail draped across its snout. The amber eyes are slitted against the flickering firelight but he can still see its diamond shaped pupils tracking Sherlock’s movements about the room. Resting then but alert.

“ _Anyway ‘War drac’_  is a completely inaccurate label,” states Sherlock as if the conversation had never paused. “It is criminal to use such a bastardised colloquialism of a species’ scientific name.”

“Oh a crime against science, arrest me now before I kill again!” the DI growls, looking suitably unimpressed with Sherlock’s idea of a pressing topic of discussion.

“The statistical likelihood of this particular  _draconis ignis bellum_  specimen having any kind of military training - never mind active service – is one in eight hundred, give or take two-percent for random error in data. Now you may understand why I disagree on the accuracy of the popular label.”

“I’d redo your sums if I was you,” came the reply. “It has scars all over it, its paperwork has more chunks blacked out than a politician’s personal details and it certainly looks nasty enough to have done time in the Corps. You don’t want to be knocking about with a war dragon - you know the RAMC doesn’t let them go if they can still die in battle on the front. That sort of life changes them, like a dog that’s only ever trained to guard and fight. They turn savage in the end, no matter what the Dragon Protection Society wants us to believe.”

“Your advice is unnecessary, Detective Inspector,” Sherlock snarls, turning his back to the other man. “Now if that is all, come back when you have a worthwhile case for me.”

Recognising his cue to leave, Lestrade levers himself up, dropping the drac’s paperwork unceremoniously on the couch. “Right I know when I’m wasting my breath. Just…be careful, Sherlock. And put a damn collar on that thing.”

His only answer as he beats a hasty retreat down the staircase is a dramatic sigh underscored by just the faintest hint of an accompanying rumble from the fireplace.

 


	4. lingua [language]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mrs Hudson meets her new border!

Sherlock awakes the next morning to a horrid squealing noise. In that absolutely wretched moment of half-sleep – as his mind crawls slowly through the process of waking – he thinks this must be Mrs Hudson’s warped idea of revenge.

‘ _How petty’_ , he thinks as the squeals morph into hearty tearing noises and loud bangs.

That is until his brain suddenly comes online and he is upright, shooting out of bed to sprint down the little hallway into the kitchen. The source of the racket is all too easy to spot from his new vantage point behind the partially closed glass dividing doors. Even Anderson would not be able to miss the dragon sprawled by the fireplace. Especially as it was currently making Sherlock’s favourite armchair into confetti.

Putting aside the destruction for a moment, the beast makes for a rather spectacular sight. Its shimmering wings are raised high in the cold dawn light. Well more accurately, the right extends proudly over scattered furniture; the left however trails at an awkward angle along the floor, scar tissue pulling tight across wasted flight muscles. Obviously Sherlock’s prior deduction that the old injury had rendered the drac earthbound was proving to be correct. How unbearably  _pedestrian_.

 “You,” Sherlock begins, advancing on the beast, “are the most useless dragon I’ve ever had the misfortune of meeting. You allowed yourself to be injured, captured and drugged and when you’re finally sold to someone more than halfway interesting you set about destroying his possessions at quarter past six on a Monday morning! You are  _entirely_ unsuitable to be my companion. There is no other option but to have you returned to the Dragonarium poste-haste.”

The irate man automatically reaches towards his trouser pocket for his mobile phone before remembering he is still dressed in duck-egg blue cotton pyjamas. He turns swiftly to retrieve the phone from his bedroom nightstand only to pull up short when a long, spiked tail slices precisely through the space where his head would have been if he had taken but one more step. Next to appear is the dragon’s head, its long reptilian neck curving close enough to Sherlock’s side to feel waves of heat radiating out like a blast furnace. The drac curls its lips back from dagger length fangs, fixing the human with a decidedly smug stare. You didn’t have to be a consulting detective to read the silent  _‘not useless after all’_ in that look.

Sherlock being who he is coolly returns the glare. He knows for a fact there are at least three of Mycroft’s button cameras “hidden” in very predictable places throughout the living room. Perhaps his brother would send one of his more mildly competent response teams. Really it was his fault Sherlock was in this situation to begin with so it would serve him right to have to clean it up.

The dragon is not at all phased by the mad human staring it down. Rather it shifts closer, opening its maw to reveal the electric blue glow of impending death building in the back of its throat. As a scientist, Sherlock is fascinated by the principle of biologically produced fire. As someone about to burn to death he is less thrilled and more quietly terrified.

The beast inhales deeply, pauses just a moment to adjust its aim and then exhales forcibly, blowing a cloud of black smoke directly into the human’s ashen face.

Sherlock reels back wildly, coughing and spluttering while wiping furiously at his watering eyes. “You absolute ba-”

He is interrupted by the front door swinging open and a cheery “Yoo hoo, Sherlock!” from the entryway.

“A moment, Mrs Hudson!” he croaks in reply and then, pointing an angry finger at his reptilian flatmate, “you behave.”

The drac snorts another smaller jet of smoke in his direction but settles demurely on its haunches, folding its wings carefully and tucking its long tail securely around one forelimb.

“I hoped you were up,” the elderly lady calls, “brought a light snack. And tea.”

“That won’t be necessary”

“You aren’t on a case, dear,” Mrs Hudson continues, flitting through the doorway, a tea tray piled high with homemade biscuits and cakes balanced on her hip. “I heard most of your fight last night – it’s not like you to turn down that nice inspector when he brings a case.”

“There are more pressing matter to deal with than some run of the mill poisonings. These ‘serial suicides’ are barely a four, you are well aware nothing above a seven is worth the cab ride to Scotland Yard. Now, I have some urgent business to attend-”

His landlady chooses that moment to come fully around the entryway wall and promptly drops the tea tray in fright. The resounding crash is enough for the dragon at Sherlock’s side to change stance into a defensive crouch, fangs out and wings mantled in a tense arc.

“Oh my!” Mrs Hudson gasps, grasping for the nearest armchair to hold herself up. Of course, the nearest armchair also happens to be the one now sporting large claw marks in the upholstery and bites out of all four legs. “Sherlock what have you done?”

The tall man glares disapprovingly at his new companion. “It had a misunderstanding with the furniture. It is only a temporary nuisance.”

The dragon gives itself a little shake, resettling the membranous gold wings into a more relaxed posture. Sherlock is not at all surprise the creature has assessed the old woman’s intrusion on its new territory as no threat.

“Where on earth did you find him?”

“The Dragonarium on Market Street,” he replies, the ‘ _where else’_  clear in his tone. “Where - after this morning’s performance - it will be returning to. Today.”

“So he’s been up here since…?”

“Yesterday, while you were conveniently out playing bingo with Mrs Turner.”

Mrs Hudson lowers herself carefully into Sherlock’s now ruined chair, falling into quiet contemplation for a long moment.

“Pets are not covered in your rent agreement, young man.”

Sherlock chuckles softly, crossing the room to lay a fond hand on his land lady’s shoulder. A slow-spreading smile lifts the corners of her lips as she reaches up to clasp it in return.

“Mycroft can cover it.”

The room is quiet again as the old woman makes a careful examination of the drac, her eyes pausing on each scar and war wound, before she sighs in defeat. “Is it safe?”

“No, certainly not.”

As if to spite him the dragon gives a huge yawn before curling up comfortably on the hearth rug.

“Lazy beast.”

Suddenly there is a loud chirp from Sherlock’s bedroom. A text message. He ignores it in favour of glaring at the dragon. After a minute there is a quick succession of beeps growing closer and closer together.

“That sounds important,” Mrs Hudson prompts.

He huffs in return. “You might think so.”

The phone starts ringing.

“Your brother?”

 “No.” He appears content to leave it at that until the older lady nudges his shin with her toes. “Mycroft would call first. If the second call went unanswered he would send a car around. No multiple text messages followed by three distinctively separate calls with voicemail messages left after each; that is trademark metropolitan police force stuck on a case.”

“Sherlock,” scolds Mrs Hudson. “It could be life or death.”

“Oh death most certainly.”

“Well check your messages before they send a police car. You know how the neighbours talk.”

For once Sherlock concedes without a fight (or sulk), though he does make a point of stalking to his bedroom nightstand to retrieve the phone.

“I was right - it’s the serial suicides. Anderson’s jumped to entirely the wrong conclusion again. Completely dull and not worth my time right now.”

“Don’t be cruel, Sherlock. Four poor souls are dead.”

The brunette steeples his long-fingered hands beneath his chin, phone clasped between palms and eyes closed. He spends a long time in this position – phone occasionally squawking angrily – before finally breathing a dramatic sigh and sending a rapid fire text back to Lestrade.

“Fine. This won’t take much to solve. The dragon will have to be dealt with tomorrow.”

Mrs Hudson pushes to her feet with a groan, heading directly for the puddle of soggy finger food and broken crockery she’d dropped before. “What a mess! This carpet will be impossible to dry out.”

“Take it out of the rent.” Sherlock breezes past to grab his coat from a kitchen chair, pausing to drop a quick kiss on the elderly woman’s cheek.

“Your brother’s going to get a nasty shock when I post him the bill.” She turns a speculative look on the now dozing reptile. “What should I charge for dragon board and lodgings?”

“For one his size, two hundred quid a week plus insurance,” Sherlock answers easily. “At least it has one use.”

The dragon opens his eyes at that and pushes up to stand on all four paws. Mrs Hudson who has just finished binning all the unsalvageable teacups stops and stares.

“If he was any bigger he wouldn’t fit through the doors.”

The dragon makes a show of stretching – wings, legs, tail, even his earflaps – before slowly moving closer to the humans.

“Yes he is ridiculously large,” sighs Sherlock, pulling on his leather gloves without looking up. The drac is alongside him now so is able to give the unaware human a reproachful smack with the leading edge of his right wing.

Mrs Hudson giggles nervously. “How much English does he understand?”

“Dragons only learn basic commands. He must be more sensitive to inflection and body language than most. Though perhaps my studies are skewed if Anderson is not an average example of dragon intelligence and social behaviour.” The phone beeps again and Sherlock stuffs it unceremoniously in a coat pocket. “I really must be going.”

“Take care, dear.”

Sherlock gives a slightly manic smile and bounds down the staircase, leaving Mrs Hudson alone in 221B with a one tonne fire-breathing dragon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thank you to everyone that commented on the last chapter <333333 It really amazes me that there are people out there that still remember this little old story! Next chapter the exciting stuff begins ;)


	5. telum [weapon, gun]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Good guys meet a bad guy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big thank you to everyone that has supported this story and continued to read/kudos/comment while I've been away <3 I had the most mega writer's block in the history of ever, couldn't even look at a piece of paper without all the words disappearing from my head. Turns out I had a brain tumour, no joke! 10 weeks post surgery this week and feeling like my old self, so happy to be able to write again :D

Mrs Hudson flutters nervously around 221B for a few hours. She straightens what little furniture there is left untouched by the dragon’s early morning rampage before moving on to cleaning indiscriminately. Many of Sherlock’s precious scientific projects become victims, particularly the kitchen sink mould collection. The dragon remains content to observe quietly by the unlit fireplace.

“What a mess,” tuts the elderly woman. “Sherlock is bad enough without your influence,” she continues, turning a disapproving frown on her newest tenant, “being a dragon is no excuse for bad behaviour!”

The dragon blinks innocently in reply, curling up tightly to appear as small as possible.

Mrs Hudson sighs, her expression softening, “I suppose I could forgive it just this once….How about I pop downstairs for some meat. It is all frozen but a quick turn in the microwave will have it thawed in no time.”

A hopeful expression crosses the dragon’s facial features.

“I thought that would perk you up.” Mrs Hudson smiles, hands on apron-clad hips. “Sherlock will be out for a while yet but I don’t suppose he would even think to feed you when he gets in – cant even remember to feed himself – I will have to visit the butchers for you later. At least if we fill this fridge up with animal bits Sherlock wont be able to fit any more human heads in it.”

The dragon drifts off into a light doze while the elderly woman continues to chatter distractedly.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock returns to 221B like a hurricane, rushing through the flat with single-minded focus. The sleeping dragon startles awake and rises quickly to its feet at the intrusion. A large empty saucepan sits beside its left forepaw, a bucket by the empty hearth half full with water. Sherlock hardly has to look to know Mrs Hudson left the meat and water out while went to visit the local butchers shop to stock up. Of course she would adopt the useless beast! He had to return it before she became too attached.

“Before you destroy my evidence,” Sherlock announces aloud, wrenching the pink suitcase he had lugged home away from the now curious dragon. “Go back to being lazy; it appears to be your special talent.”

The dragon ignores Sherlock’s aggressive tone of voice entirely in favour of nosing at the suitcase perched in the centre of the cluttered dining table.

“Fine, get in my way then. I will dissect you if you damage this – it is evidence in a murder investigation, my murder investigation!”

Sherlock efficiently unzips the case, rifling through the contents methodically.

“No mobile phone. Excellent! The pieces come together!” The man spins away in glee, abandoning his precious evidence for the dragon to poke around in. Sherlock returns with a laptop, batting the beast away to perch on the only unscathed wooden chair.

“Murder is an ancient tradition at the mercy of modern technology. This killer thinks he is so clever; each murder is a trophy of his intelligence. His methods however, are entirely average. No. Jennifer Wilson was clever. Clever enough to be solving her murder despite being dead!”

The front door downstairs opens with a rustle of plastic shopping bags. Mrs Hudson calls up, “Sherlock! There’s a man here for you, says you rang for a cab?”

Sherlock remains absorbed in his laptop, distractedly replying, “Just a minute!”

The shopping bags rustle again, clunking down on the wooden floorboards before there are footsteps on the stairs.

“Really, Sherlock. Its rude to keep the poor man waiting.”

“I did not call for a taxi, Mrs Hudson. Tell him to go.”

The light footsteps stop on 221B’s landing. The doorknob begins to turn.

“Come on. Come on,” Sherlock hisses impatiently between clenched teeth. “Hurry up!”

The door swings open; Mrs Hudson empty handed in the doorway. “He really is insistent.”

In the next moment the laptop chimes proudly, a red flashing dot appearing on a digital road map.

“Aha! Finally,” exclaims Sherlock, leaning forward in excitement as he reads the road names. “But that is-”

Heavier footsteps start up the stairway, Mrs Hudson turning to look as a strong gust of wind blows in from the open front door. The golden dragon that had been sat quietly by the suitcase inhales the passing breeze deeply, glances back at the pink case and gives an almighty roar. It surges past Mrs Hudson and into the stairwell in a wave of muscle and teeth.

Sherlock leaps forward in time to see the dragon collide with the gun wielding cab driver halfway up the staircase. A bullet explodes form the gun on impact, the man’s trigger finger clenching instinctively at the sight of the furious reptilian beast hurtling towards him. The bullet goes wide, hitting the far wall in an explosion of splinters as the dragon knocks his opponent over, barrelling straight out the front door.

The cabbie lies on the pavement outside momentarily stunned from the fall. His glasses are askew, cap lost in the tumble. The dragon regains its footing, tail lashing angrily. It’s right wing flares high into the night sky, left trailing sadly. Seeing his one desperate chance at escape, the cabbie raises his gun again. He takes aim over the dragon’s heavily scarred left shoulder at Sherlock who has just leapt out into the street.

The wasted flight muscles in the dragon’s chest and shoulder bunch and strain in vain to raise the wing. The murderer keeps a clear line of sight. He fires. The dragon pushes up to its hindlegs. The bullet finds its mark, slicing into thick scar tissue. The dragon flinches from the shot but does not feel the bullet wound due to its nerve damaged shoulder.

It is enough distraction for the shooter to start up his taxi and peal down Baker Street, brakes squealing as he hurtles onto the main road at speed.

Sherlock runs into the street headless of the traffic to memorise the cab’s numberplate while Mrs Hudson appears at the dragon’s side as it sinks back down to crouch on the footpath.

“Oh my!” she exclaims at the blood dripping slowly from the fresh bullet wound. “Sherlock! Your dragon’s been shot!”

The man is still standing in the middle of the road, phone now in hand as he hits speed dial. “At least it has proven useful for something”

The dragon snarls and stands to head back to check the flat over. It disappears up the staircase quickly, leaving small drops of blood on the rug. Mrs Hudson tuts anxiously, heading into 221A to get her first aid kit and cleaning supplies. Blood was tricky enough to get out of carpet without letting it dry.

Outside Sherlock paces impatiently from curb to curb waiting for the phone to connect. On his second lap he spots a pink mobile phone lying in the gutter, its screen smashed. There would be no tracing the cabbie electronically this time around.

“Sherlock?” his brother asks on the second ring. “I have dispatched a medical team for the dragon. What else do you require?”

“A location of a cab: number plate 0N04 PYG, taxi license 91197.”

“Anthea will have the location when she arrives. Get out of the road, brother.”

Sherlock thumbs the end call button with gusto. Just for Mycroft he stands in the road a minute longer before retrieving the pink phone. He then proceeds to storm up to his flat to wait on Anthea and Mycroft’s medical team.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates should hopefully be less Sherlock-hiatus worthy with the bloody tumour out of my head now! Thanks ever so much for reading, your support makes my day


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